


Dragon Fire: The Dathras

by Where_the_wicker_ends



Series: Dragon Fire [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Comics), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Multi, Seheron, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Tevinter Imperium
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 00:17:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9295889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Where_the_wicker_ends/pseuds/Where_the_wicker_ends
Summary: Things start to fall apart as Thedas' power shifts creates an imbalance. A sect of the Qunari, the Dathras, breaks off from the mainland and begins poisoning the lyrium mines of their own people. The result is the destruction of the only neutral ground between Tevinter and Qunandar. Between the machinations of the Black Divine, with the hopes of exterminating all of Evune's progress, and the Dathras, Evune had not known that the place he should've been watching his back was in his own home, in his own family.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A sex scene later on towards the end. It'll be about the only one for awhile though. . .

_9:25 dragon_

5th day of Nubulis

Ath Velanis, Western Tevinter Territory

Seheron

 

The battle was brutal. 

Dust and ash smeared the stone walkways leading into the fortress, Akhaaz, with the cracked wood of broken posts hauled in to be used for firewood—their magic still wrung out from battle. The plot of land was a former Elvhen city and the architecture had been built upon his ancestor’s massacred bodies making the ground hilly and ridged. The air thick with the residual fade distortions of elemental magics and grenades of yesterday’s fight while tatters of burnt papers and flags flitted in the sky created a picturesque appearance mirroring their expressions. It looked like the world had ended.

Flames licked at their skin and filled up his eyes. He had been there on the battlefield tasting the sharp tang of magic as spells were tossed and bones were crushed to powder. He had done it against Oran’s wishes even. Evune wasn’t a soldier there was no reason for him to be there but while they sat on the edges of surrendering he had been at Ath Velanis—he felt it in the marrow of his bones. They _couldn’t_ lose.

 He stole a Dracolisk and rushed off towards the smoke clouds and reached the battlefield, miles away. Beneath its hooves and underneath the swirling miasma, armor and bones cracked until his eyes caught a pile of unused Gaatlok. The explosion tore a hole through their walls allowing way for one last mass siege attack. Pure luck.

Those Qunari stationed fought to the death. You could see the fierceness in their eyes tainted with hopelessness but that hopelessness had been in his own men’s eyes mere seconds before. It was the first time in many years that he felt like the monster the Qunari were supposed to be. War is a merciless beast and its claws had reached its way deep into Evune’s chest.

He no longer felt guilt. He felt vindicated. Victorious.

“Lord Consort, the generals warn against travel.” The armored guard saluted.

“They won’t attack today. Today is a day for mourning.”

The guard tilted his head and straightened upright. He said nothing else. Evune zipped his thickened hooded robe and stepped out the fortress with one final nod at the guard as its screeching black metal fell to a close behind him. The soft dirt beneath helped his feet slide against it as he trekked down the hill intermittently losing traction and sliding down the clumps of mud. The billowing flaps of his robes and the cold chill ran bumps against his skin. He clutched the robes sleeves tighter against his wrists. They didn’t make expensive robes fitted for elves in the Imperium, even with a tailor. The cold wind breezed up through the collar and out through the sleeves where he cradled a small, prickly seed.

Today, at the crack of dawn, the battle ended. Evune knew that the battle had really only begun. The Templars, Oran’s soldiers, had begun looking at him differently. Those scrutinizing, judgmental gazes transformed into curiosity and admiration. He had gained their respect, but this was only the beginning, as he had said. The rugged protocols of war held a modicum of politics at its start and end. The bureaucrats and Magisters needed to have their say. The Templars needed their funds and sponsorship. They couldn’t win without either and his partner, Oran, sat at the helm—the centerfold of both ends. All Evune could do was stand in support with a calming hand and word. Oran was not one to be led like others. He respected Oran too much to steal the reins. Arrogance streamlined through his mind, for a moment, and he wondered why it was so easy for him yet not for Oran. Quickly, he brushed the thought aside. Arrogance did not deserve a reward.

Sunrise clocked them in as soldiers began dragging Qunari bodies down one trail and their own squad mates down another. The trees’ foliage broken and left in pieces as proof of the battle’s carnage left a bitter taste in his mouth. His ancestors would’ve apologized to the gods and left gifts at their trees in reverence.

 Instead, he helped cut down those trees for firewood to burn the bodies. The heat, the burning of Qunari flesh and its smell were no different than any other elven or human form. Dwarven cremation always added a sharp saltiness to the air like the ocean and rock. Their beards were always the first to go. He wasn’t sure whether the inability to turn away, especially the first time, during a cremation—a twisted burial practice—was what brought him out here in the middle of the forest.

Evune had told them to leave the Qunari bodies. Suggested it quietly. On the curtails of the battle, his words were ignored. Much like elves, Qunari did not believe in burying the body. It was another final action of disrespect and war-like thought. Perhaps this, instead of the actual cremation, was the reason he had traversed outside the fort.  Or, perhaps, it was the reminder that it was war and the whispers of “guilt-free” condemnations. He had never liked to do what others said.

A twittering leg clicked against the hollow trunks he passed. The cold damp air sucked into his lungs as ridged trunks scratched his fingers. Leaves fell from the trees miles above his shoulders and trees twice as wide as he was tall. He slid down the wet trail, deeper and lower into the lower lands.

 He flicked out his blades, feeling them slip down from his fingers like liquid, solidifying to swivel outward, the scythes, in a wide swipe. The sliced carcass of a six-legged haired creature fell from the tree—a dead Silent Crawler. The razor sharp thin blades sunk back against his hand inking up to his shoulders and back where it sat normally They had lost a healer this morning. The second one within days. A Dr. Porenni joined them ten days past and three other healers—formerly three—in the infantry when Dr. Elion, their previous doctor, was poisoned by a Silent Crawler. The spindly insects that hunted from the tree in the dead of night were a surprising adversary Elion in all his studies had never encountered. His studies more standing in the realm of poultices and potions—a curiosity Evune held himself even if he had no magic.

It was upsetting when he realized Elion wouldn’t survive more than five hours. Oran shook his head—holding a bit of judgment—when Evune decided to begin writing a letter requesting for another doctor while the man laid sweating, scratching against his skin with elfroot lacing his sleeping draught. The screams were not what convinced him to send him home, dead or otherwise, but the regaled gossip on Elion’s insanity as the hours past whispered from word of mouth to another. Leftovers of his existence were spoken through snickering jokes and the jostling elbows of Templars. Silent Crawlers were the least deadly of creatures in Seheron. He had lost the soldiers’ respect.

Elion, if he had survived, would’ve been recommended to the Academy of Minrathous, specifically, the Department of Medical Studies. He would’ve gained class statuses, better housing, and his clan would’ve gained prestige. But he couldn’t stay here. The Templars didn’t deserve a simple Altus who had stitched and bandaged the wounds of more than half of all the surviving Templars of every battle fought in the last eight years. He attended to the needs of the childish and the ignorant who faced illness, endangering their soldiers, because of whimsy.

When the bell rang, signaling his death, he tossed the letters in the trash and pulled out a new stack of parchment. And in substitution, he sent a few golden trinkets and a Civic Phalera. It was mere coppers in comparison.

Elion deserved more.

Some days, he echoed the sentiment.   

When he finally reached the mound, covered in creatures and leaves with the rotting corpses a mere inches below him, the humidity sitting on his chest like guilt told him to dig through the plot with his bare hands to find his mother’s body—as if her body and only her’s would still be whole and untouched by the grasp of death. The image of the trees, both of Sylaise and June, snapped in half cradling the dead bodies of his clan. Memories were buried so deep that the thought had never made its way through in nearly twenty years until yesterday. Apologies he had never spoken still sat lodged in his throat. As it would continue to.

“Where are we?”

Oran’s voice settled in the cold air a moment before Evune regained his bearings. “This is where the slaves were buried.”

Oran looked around the empty area surrounded by trees and little else but the one mound. He gestured towards it, shifting uncomfortably. “Your parents.”

“My whole clan.” The wind swept and his hair scratched against his cheek. He pulled off his glove holding the prickly red berry seed and while flies buzzed around his head, he kneeled in the wet dirt planting another mound atop the plot.

“I’m sorry.”

 

Elves and their ideas of full-circle. Death. Life. Rebirth. Recreation.

Reflection.

“It’s cold.”

Evune pressed his closed hands against his mouth, as he prayed ignoring his companion’s vocal grumble seeing it as Oran’s attempt to lighten the mood. “Lethanavir, guide my mother, uncles, aunts, brothers, and sisters to their rest. Calm their souls. Guide their feet.” _Let my own sins be cleansed._

“You’re smiling.”

He turned to Oran, who stood shivering with his burly great bear coat wrapped tight over his body, and replied, “I’ve prayed to two spirituals today.” Oran outstretched his hand and pulled him up. “I never prayed this much even when I believed. And you’ve never been so quiet.”

“Hah, well, I didn’t have much of a choice.” Oran prodded gently. “Leto didn’t come with.”

“No. He did not.”

Oran swept a hand through his hair—darkened by the hours in the sun from its natural blonde to light brown. “That kid. He’s lucky he was born high.”

“Not high enough,” Evune said softly.

Oran snorted.

Lethmalloren, his son, refused outright at the request. It was always a joke between his friends on his similar disposition to him with his white hair and brown skin but in character they were opposites. To his son, the Fog Warriors were not _his_ people. The Nazari clan were ephemeral, nonexistent beings, like his elven grandparents. Yet, Tevinters were his people. Magisters were his people. He hardly even considered elves his people but it was hard to deny features that stared at you in the mirror.

Oran grasped his hand and yanked it to his coat pockets, warming them both, as they walked from the lower hills to the prison a good hour's walk away.  His breath puffing in the cold air.

“I’m not cold.” Evune smiled. They swayed in the walk up the hill as if they weren’t heading a war and heading into a barracks. Oran tapped a kiss against his cheek. “And you’re being especially affectionate after I’ve just cried over my mother’s burial grounds. Classless. You’ll call a demon with that sort of nonchalance.”

“Not funny,” Oran hummed, wrapping his arm and catching his hands in his own pockets. “And did I hear casteless? I couldn’t imagine a thing otherwise at this peak of Tevinter perfection.” His voice mocking.

“Don’t you dare—

Oran pecked another kiss and another against his cheek as he continued to repeat, “Tevinter perfection”. Their laughter filling up the air.

 

 

They neared the fort, Ath Velanis, a twisted thorny crown atop the hills when trees behind them rustled. Lanehn, dressed in black garb, came out from the shadows with only his eyes showing. He pulled down his mask and uncovered his face. Pulling out a pile of letters, he handed them to Evune with a nod before sinking back into the shadows.

“I liked him, you know,” Oran said as they continued up the hill to the first entrance into the fort—a wide bricked and gray building like all Tevinter architecture. The soldiers nodded and waved them in. The grating steel gates screeching as they opened.

Evune smiled lightly. “You weren’t using his skills properly.” He flipped through the envelopes finding them all in order and each of the small pricked holes Lanehn made after each thorough perusal. “And I think he likes his new job. Better benefits.” The soldiers ushered them through the second and third gates until they reached the actual entrance.

 “At least he had days off with me,” Oran argued. They stood in the middle of the hall, bypassing the bowing heads of soldiers and saluting scribes. “All my revolutionaries had designated days off at the bar. Minimum requirements and all that waltz.”

“Did he?” Evune questioned. “Did he really?”

“I hate you,” Oran answered. His foot touched the stone and a loud voice shouted down the hall.

“Knight-Captain! Knight-Captain, I have a question!” One of the young recruits ran forward and Oran tilted a glance at Evune before nodding at the recruits excited questions. Evune fell back against the wall, flipping through the envelopes pausing at one carrying the purple insignia of Ferelden’s monarch. He ripped open the letter and its cursive lettering only had written:

_“The dragon has arrived.”_

“Fenedhis.” Evune cursed. He twisted towards Oran and then slid the envelope to the bottom of the pile. He had hoped the hints of a blight were mere rumors but it seemed to be real unlike their fluke of a dragon twenty years past.

“Ready?”

Evune hid his surprise and nodded at Oran’s question, tucking the envelope tight. But before they could turn towards their hallway leading to their quarters, loud metal footsteps screeched behind them once again preventing them from resting. There was only one person who would be so obnoxious.

“The Lord Consort makes it back no less than at the behest of the Knight-Captain.” Dressed in full Tevinter armor, thin chainmail covering his legs, bulky pointed Silverite molded boots, and cuirass, General Merula stood at a good two feet taller than the two of them. “They were right to put you at Seheron’s stead. That Davan was a soft-hearted fool. Hated to head into battle. Hated to go to war! The strangest of all Templars, truly. One day you will earn the Tevene Honoural! I see it!” The man twisted a finger against his beard, tugging on it as he continued to speak. The recruits still standing in the halls saluted hurriedly and rushed off, whispering over their shoulders at the general standing before them.

The man was well-known to be insufferable with his boasting but he was no liar. In twenty years, he had only lost one battle and it was his superior who had led him then. So, this was no simple man they could bypass. He deserved respect. A little, at least.

 General Merula snapped his fingers and four Templars carrying an unconscious Qunari over their shoulders marched in. A young one by barely an inch shy of six foot, his horns were barely curling out from his scalp. “We found one of their Hassrath snooping about. And as a peak perfection of Tevinter, I’ve ransacked his tent and taken his coded letters.” General Merula bowed deeply and then snapped back upright. “We will leave him to be questioned like the other.” He snapped his fingers again and shouted, “Attention! Off to the barracks, third prison.” He and his men marched off.

Oran turned to Evune. “The other?”

“Salazar has one in his lab.” Evune shifted uncomfortably.

Oran opened his mouth but Evune interrupted and said, “We’ve had a long day. I’m exhausted.” Without another word, Oran closed his mouth and nodded.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sareethi, one of his oldest closest and most trusted friends, sent him a new ink jar molded out of volcanic aurum, a blackened orange stone, into the figure of an owl with curved wings—a well-known symbol of Arlathan, the ancient kingdoms of Elvhen. With its wings spread, as the ink emptied out, the feathers and eyes discolored to shimmer crystalline pink and blue. The owl represented power and leadership to the Dalish and Sareethi—unaware of the differences—didn’t know that Fog Warriors saw them as omens of death. Nevertheless, it was a beautiful gift that he had yet to find a way to return. He owed her, the Qunari mentor who became his sister.

 He had begun writing replies to the letters immediately once returning to his room reminding Catalina, who was having her thirteenth in a few weeks, that their family, the Lavellans, would visit soon after for a friendly competition among the lower classes. She and Noranni got on particularly well so that was something to look forward to. He knew Noranni would sneer if he even tried to speak to her about it as Noranni, unlike him, was an amazing archer. She could speak elvish, read elvish, and was even learning Orlesian next. He wasn’t sure he could take the credit for her resilience. Unlike Evune, she was gifted. He admired her. And in a way, he felt that he shouldn’t—that he didn’t deserve to take credit. Deshanna would tell him otherwise but he hadn’t seen her or Arnarel since their youngest was born a few years back.

The next letter he wrote was a reply to his connections in Ferelden. A second letter fell out the initial one. A servant, he imagined, but also a member of a known family. Their land ownership was small and they held no allegiance to the “nobler” family they served. She was in a similar situation to his when he first arrived in the Imperium. Under usual circumstances, it would’ve been ignored if it hadn’t involved experiments. He can’t save _every_ one.

“Do you really think they’ll give me the Honoural?” Oran asked. His head popped out from underneath the blankets and swiveled towards Evune’s spot at his desk.

Evune nearly slid out the chair, presumably believing the other to be asleep. “Where did that come from?”

“That’s a firm no.”

Evune twisted around in his seat. “It was a question.”

“I think that’s what I want here. To prove myself.”

Evune turned back to his letters, straightening his now lopsided stack. “I believe you’ll be able to do it. I’m sure it’ll be a league better than my efforts to stop those supremacists.

“Those lyrium experimenters?” Oran said incredulously. “Why?”

Evune rolled his eyes up and thought that if there were Elvhen gods they had to have abandoned him years ago. Otherwise, his lovers’ whole purpose on this planet was both to steal his admiration and his will against frustration. “Does it matter? It’s more likely it’ll be done on the poor, as always. All it _needs_ is to be stopped.”

“Davan’s updates were short,” Oran said in the silence of the room where only Evune’s pen scratching on the parchment resounded. “You think he’s—

“No, he knows how difficult it is in Seheron.” Davan, the Knight-Commander of Minrathous and Seheron now, had been a rigid stability for the last eighteen years where Oran had become his second-in-command. Both were crucial scaffolds to his position as his only trusted allies at one point in time. Back then, they had been privileged in their youth to let the Qunari sporadically attack and steal information. It wasn’t until Ferelden and Orlais allied that they realized that while the rest of Thedas was preparing for combat Tevinter had no allies. To make matters worse, his once kindling friendship with Queen Rowan was quickly crushed after her death. King Maric not wanting to have anything to do with Tevinter, ignored his letters the years after. Among their weaponry, there were only armistices on a clock that could run out at any time. In his sleep, he could hear the ticking as the clock fell ever closer. Soon. The hour was near.

Oran shifted behind him and smacked a stone against a lighter stick. His candlestick lit up the room, a warm comfort in the stone bareness. Oran had one of his friends build a dwarven spa and irrigation system in part of the fortress. The bed was thick and held enough room for five people. The sounds of the pipes clinking through the walls and the sound of armored boots patrolling sounded throughout the day. Even in the distance, General Merula’s clapping steps were heard, while the whispers of conversations on the upper floors and ledges wisped down to their ears.

Evune dotted his letter and ended the message, flipping it on its side as he folded it close. The creaking of his desk as his foot shifted broke the stillness and breathing snuck up behind him brushing against his neck. Arms fell on either side of him on the desk, “You’re still up.” Oran pressed a kiss against his neck before sliding on the bed and slipping on his loose bedclothes. “You’ve had a rough two days.”

“So has the Knight-Captain and his clothing,” Evune answered pointedly. The shoddy bedclothes had holes in some spots that Oran refused to confront. He wasn’t one to buy new clothes unless it was entirely unwearable. The Knight-Captain could afford to import new clothing every season now, but his old habits were hard to break. Evune had ripped tears in some of his clothing just to force him to throw them away. Not that he couldn’t empathize. Evune still couldn’t bear to wear shoes. Flat sandals were the closest compromise he could make with his Tevinter friends and family.

Oran grumbled behind him. “Strange, every time I hear those words, the bedclothes disappear as if by magic.”

“Strange indeed. I see no mages here.” Evune said, a smile curling on his lips as he folded the letters and sealed them, leaving them piled on the desk. The thin drakeskin gloves tickled his wrists and the edge of the paper would’ve nicked him otherwise but with the leather’s thinness, his fingertips still felt texture and indentation. Most days, he forgot he wore it all. “And here I was making sure Minrathous and the rest of the Imperium didn’t fall without us all being there. Clearly, I’ve missed more important matters.”

“Davan is heading back home after Qarinus. They’ll be fine until then.” Oran fell back on the bed and Evune slid on the bed beside him. Oran sleepily asked, “Any of those letters from the wise doctor?”

“Don’t start.”

Oran huffed. “Davan wrote a whole paragraph dedicated to the man. He’s not happy.”

“Well, neither he nor you are my keeper.” Evune returned. “If there is another Eluvian, we have to find it.”

“Isn’t it better to let sleeping phoenixes lie?” Oran sighed heavily.  Unbeknownst to him, he repeated the words Evune’s mentor said so many years ago. He cleared his throat and replied, “Avoidance assures danger. Prevention prevents it.”

“We could’ve gotten any doctor in all of Thedas, but you chose the one who kidnapped you.”

An argument Evune prepared for. “Salazar has no allegiances. He’s clever. He doesn’t shy away from the peculiar, which we happen to need. We’ve gotten far more esteem and power than our adversaries to keep his senses away from turning him traitor. For now, we have nothing to worry about.”

Oran grinned. “Ah, then let’s have a festival. We can trust the man not to be trustworthy. Clever indeed.”

 Evune glared. Oran didn’t get how shakily their allies and enemies stood. Their support would _never_ be absolute until the monarch changed. “He believes my translations are clues. We are closer than we believed. If this is what we think, we can win the war in a few years. Less, if we’re lucky.” He pulled out his wax stamp and hovered it over the candlestick before quickly stamping the envelopes with the seal of the Archon. “There are at least three other Eluvians just on this island. This doesn’t include ones in all of Southern Thedas, possibly even Orzammar.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t a good idea.” Oran answered warily, “But we know that’s not true. This war is more than—”

“The clever doctor _doesn’t_. Only the fucking bureaucracy does which happens to include you _and_ me.”

 “Have I ever told you I love it when you curse? It’s like a sweet spot.”

“The only people who know the complete truth is you, me, and Davan. I would rather we keep it that way.” Evune blew against the stamp and hurried its cooling. He placed it back on his desk, turning towards Oran. Oran flipped over on his side just as Evune approached the bed. Evune hunched forward, whispering above the blanket. “I’m trying not to be one of those elves who talk about—

Oran peeked out from it. He sang,“ Arlathan. Arlathan. Where art thou Arlathan?” Then he swept around Evune, flipping him on his back, and nuzzled against his neck. “You like talking elf to him. We understand.”

“It’s more than that.” He couldn’t put into words how stranded and disconnected the Imperium had made him. “I came here to help our people—all our people. We can do that with the mirror.” With his arms caught in-between Oran’s, he dropped the envelopes in the drawer of the end table by the bed.

“You don’t want them to know you.”

Evune tapped his fingers against Oran’s cheek. “You know me. I trust you to trust me. I trust them to distrust me.” Oran caught the fingers and kissed against his tips. “Besides, it’s better if they see me as a simple, if elevated, bed-slave.”

“To a half-dwarf?” Oran slid his hand down from his shoulder grabbing a firm ass cheek. Evune flipped his leg over Oran’s while he unbuttoned his tunic. He dragged his hands up and down Oran’s chest.

“If he works his cards right.”

“Point made,” Oran said as he gripped his ass tighter, kissing up and down his chest, sliding Evune’s tunic off his shoulders. “You’ll find it.”

“If we find this temple, it doesn’t mean we’ve won. We still have a hundred more steps to do and plans to make. I can’t make it about me and other things.” He twisted on his side facing Oran.

Oran slid his hand down from his shoulder grabbing a firm ass cheek. “You don’t have to do it all. Ask one of the Fog Warrior clans.”

Evune flipped his leg over Oran’s while he unbuttoned his tunic. He dragged his hands up and down Oran’s chest. “Why don’t you ask the casteless why they won’t join the war effort, Knight-Captain? I’m sure they have plenty to gain, oh, wait. They don’t.”

“Point made. Again.” Oran said as he gripped his ass tighter, kissing up and down his chest, sliding Evune’s tunic off his shoulders. “You’ll find it.” He repeated.

Evune pressed his lips to Oran’s and delved his tongue in, their tongues dancing a familiar, even memorized, step. Oran rolled over on Evune, pulling his pants off and pulling down his underclothes. He gripped his ass, pulling him closer and licking his thighs to his stomach. He took special care to dig his tongue in and loosen him up. It had been weeks before now where the two of them were just the right amount of warm and hazy. He licked his belly button and even the discolored lines across his stomach leading up from his collar to his lips.

“Nice and slow,” Oran said in his ears before he trailed from his ears to his neck with deep kisses.  Evune turned on his side and rolled his hips against his cock. Oran wrapped his arms around his stomach and eased himself in. Listening to Evune gasp long and low, he rolled his hips. “Comfortable.”

“I could even fall asleep.”

Oran faked a laugh against his throat. “Don’t.

Evune thrusted down and Oran groaned.

Oran thrusted in a few more times before he trailed his fingers down and thrusted in, filling him as much as possible. He pushed himself as deep as he could, nuzzling behind his ear. “I love you, you know.”

“I know.” Evune tightened his hold around his waist. “I love you too.” He turned around and after staring into each other’s eyes, he pressed a kiss to his lips. He tightened his ass, squeezing Oran’s cock as he pushed up and down. Catching Oran’s moans in his mouth, he rolled his hips and rode his cock, pressing his hands down on Oran’s chest. He felt Oran’s cock thicken and stretch again. He felt his ass cheeks being pressed and rubbed as Oran pulled him closer. Oran trembled through another climax as Evune moaned his mouth.

Evune breathed out, laying his head on Oran’s chest, “It’s not too difficult—to keep trying.”

“It’s fine.” Oran said with a small smile, “Dwarves already have difficulty and a halfa. . . I’m not worth—

Evune pressed his lips on his, effectively cutting off the argument. He mumbled, “It’s not too late and this war. . .”

“When you find it, they will know who you are.” Oran breathed out. “The soldiers. The generals. Everyone.”

Evune hummed. “I already know who I am.”

“And if they call you a woman?”

“My family are the ones who chose who I was. I am who I say I am. Perhaps if your language was not so limited.”

Oran brushed his hands up and down his back. “Turn around.” He moved his back against the headboard and Evune pressed his ass back, catching his cock under him. Oran lifted his hips, clutching Evune’s while kissing along his neck. He twisted his nipples and pulled Evune down as if sitting on his cock. He rolled his hips forward, spreading Evune’s hips as he thrusted in and out, pulling his legs taut over his own. He pushed his tongue through his lips and copied his own hip thrusts with his tongue. His cock spreading and thickening in his heat tugging on his hole. He thrusted up and down, slapping skin on skin catching Evune’s whimpers in his mouth until one last thrust, he pulled Evune tight making sure every bit of cum caught inside.

“You've been talkative tonight. You even invited along to see the burial ground. There’s no need to be nervous, you know,” Oran said. He turned on his side and picked up a wet cloth, wiping their thighs clean. Evune scooted to lay beside him on his side facing away from him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Have you ever had the same dream? These bad. . .images with its monstrous mouth and the skies bleeding red. I’ve never had such a dream before.” Magic curled underneath his skin. The Gaatlok powder still stuck in his nose and the prickles imprinted against his finger.

“We’ll be fine. Its natural after the battle you've witnessed to see these things. I saw a burning cart. It was the first time I had seen a mass cremation." Oran shivered. "I still see it some days." He reached over Evune and blew out the candlelight.

Even in the darkness, Evune watched as Oran’s eyes flitted closed. He pressed close and said lowly, “You have to defeat the Qunari.” Oran sniffled and then pulled Evune close enough for him to dig his head into Evune’s shoulder.

“Of course.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

By morning, with the few hours of sleep that they were able to get, they were awoken just before daybreak by knocking. They detangled from each other’s hold and Oran hastily pulled on a robe.

Lethmalloren saluted. “The supply ship was overrun. We’re trying to regain as many boxes, but—

"Leto." Oran dropped a hand on his shoulder. “It’s fine. We knew they were going to start hitting our resources. Did they take the bait?”

Lethmalloren nodded, his longsword strapped to his back clinked against his shoulder armor.

Oran rushed into his closet and was out the door without another second’s notice only to return, peeking out from the side of the door. "And tighten your sword strap before you cut yourself running." and slammed the door shut again. Lethmalloren stood uncomfortably in the doorway, tightening the strap with a reddened face. His downtrodden expression reminded him of when his son was a child and tried sneaking out the sugar cookies he had specially imported from Orlais. His guilty expression with the crystals of sugar littering all over his fingers and face was just as sour. Leilani, who was his nanny at the time, made a show of trying not to laugh but even the often stoic Sareethi had to cover her mouth to hide her laughter.

“You can come in, da’len. It’s not like I’m going to bite.” Evune laughed against the pillow.

His son cleared his throat. “I wanted to apologize for my reaction to. . .your request. I changed my mind. I wish to see the burial.”

Evune huffed. He loved his son, certainly and wholeheartedly, but his urge to demand for things was something he thought was stamped out years ago. “You don’t have to. You never lived here and you never met your grandparents. I can’t blame you for not feeling attached.”

“I know, but,” Lethmalloren paused and took a hesitant step forward as if to know that he was treading on water but would sink at any moment. His son was correct to be hesitant. Evune would tell him _nothing._  “I heard some of the older soldiers discuss the Hand of Thoth. I wish to hear them--these stories of my grandmother and grandfather. Our family's birthright.”

“There’s nothing to be said. They had never seen it. Neither had their parents or their parents before them. In return, their gift was,” Evune rolled over on the other side of the bed facing away from his son. He dug his head deeper into the pillow. He’d hoped to get a few more hours of sleep. “to be stuffed with their dead clanmates in a pile. Burned as well, I believe. For what little I do know, I know there is no birthright in that.”

“I disagree.” Lethmalloren retorted, “The Hand of Thoth was supposed to tip the war in our favor. We could’ve won years ago with you—our family’s birthright. Perhaps grandmother would’ve—”

“You wish to use the elven birthright you hold no respect or honor towards for only the benefit of those who used them. How kind, da'len.” Evune wrapped his robe tight across his body and slipped out from the bed. His pulse jumped as he twisted the robe’s belt and stared back at his son. He was awake. Wide awake and aware that his son was not to know of this _birthright_ and wondering who would've gone against his direct order to tell him. None of his children should've known. Lethmalloren’s shoulders tensed at Evune's pause. “Do you blame me then? I’ve locked it away so that no one—not I or you, can ever use its power. It's not one that can be controlled without great sacrifice.”  He told himself, 'Let him believe it is a weapon of grandeur that can be found.'. The birthright is a  _curse._ How could he tell his children this? That the very blood strumming in their veins was a punishment. . .

“Those years,” His son pleaded, “that time has past. People were too desperate and unknowledgeable. Today, Oran’s revolution has succeeded. Davan’s power is tight. We are better suited to use it now, more than ever.”

Evune laughed. “The Liberati have made progress. But to say that they have succeed as if their journey has ended is like comparing whispers to a shout. They have much more to achieve and Tevinter’s history of bloodshed can’t be erased. There are dues to be made. Da’len, you can’t believe the whispers of every—”

Lethmalloren hissed, “Tevinter is the strongest empire in Thedas. There is no one more suited to it than us. Bloodshed is merely the—the wounds of experience. The Black Divine said—

Evune snapped around. He clasped his hands tightly before he said, coldly, “I would not take the words of an old man who would rather call you _elf_ than by your _birth_ name.  There was not one moment that I look back on Tarsian’s ownership of me that I feel thankful. ”  

“Father,” Lethmalloren said incredulous, “is an Archon—the highest echelon of the Imperium. Being the slave to an Archon is like being a prized—

Evune shouted. “Enough!” He had to take a step back as his son’s twisted mouth stared at him. “You will take the missives out from my drawer to the messenger and leave. Our discussion is over.”

Lethmalloren gritted his teeth before taking a bow, snatching at the pile of letters. Before he could slam the door, Evune spoke up, “Don't show your face to me until you can tell me the origins of your name. Leth Ma Lloren. Three separate parts. I would suggest contacting Noranni or Lysandris if your elvish is rusty.”

Lethmalloren glared at him with a deep hatred before the door slammed shut, a little crack edging down from the doorknob. His desk trembled at the slam, while Evune held his hand against the shaking desk in the quiet stillness of room feeling the stab of betrayal from his son twist in his chest. He lifted his hand and found it painted with ink. His son had knocked over Evune’s ink jar and it spilled on his letters to Catalina and Davan. The tips of the wings now cracked they appeared open instead of furled as if warding out intruders.  With a shaky hand, he rolled his letters up and began writing them anew with a clean hand.

'Warning.' the owl said. The words as clear in his mind as if actually spoken.

He could tell himself his son didn’t know any better. Perhaps it was true.

It didn’t make it any easier to handle. It didn't make it hurt any less.

 

Evune strode into the Healer’s quarters and yanked open Dr. Porenni’s lab to find the man crouched over another one of his “specimen.” Lanky and often sitting in the dark, his tan skin had a pallid grayness to it. His hair pulled back with each strand evenly, cleanly cut to the same length as was his perogative towards his research. His “specimen” he can now see is a dead Qunari embalmed in liquid to prevent it from rotting. He knew this precise study was to answer a long-unanswered question that only the Qunari themselves knew the answer to. For Evune, he did not care for whose blood was in whom and whether they spoke to dragons or communed with them. The whole study was rather disgusting to him, but Tevinter was not one to stray from their bloody traditions.

 The doctor looked over briefly, “Oh good, you’re here. I’ve got more than a few—

His quick recitations and brief mutterings to himself spun Evune into anger. He slammed his hand on the table and Dr. Porenni raised his head, silenced. “I allowed you here because of your advances, however questionable, in Tevinter medicine. .” Dr. Porenni opened his mouth to say something but Evune cut in before he could. “Do not think for a moment that I appreciate your gossiping on the Hand of Thoth to _my_ son. You put your citizenship and probation on the line.”

“Lord Consort, I swear to you, my formal processing needs no part in this.” The doctor replied with hands waving erratically in the air, “My appearance may have spurned the talk to return but that is no fault of my own.”

“You’re blaming me then?” It wasn’t too far-fetched but the doctor deserved to grovel. He still had nightmares. Davan and Oran had good reason to be trepidatious, but Evune did not back down from an opportunity to go forward.

The doctor shook his head hurriedly. “I’m only saying that when people think of me they think of Elvia and in turn the Hand of Thoth. You are the one who slayed the dragon—not me. Few are even aware of my part in it. I can’t apologize enough to abate rumors yet I hope that the gloves are working to that end.”

Evune exhaled sharply. He balled up his fist, flexing his fingers in the thin dragonskin gloves. Shortly after arriving out from the Fade, he had begun tapping into abilities that could only be called Blood Magic but it used no other’s but his own, primarily. His blades, for example, were at his whim because of his blood and its aversion to lyrium but it was still dwarven ingenuity. With only his mere touch, he could recount the instance that led to an event through a droplet of someone's dried blood. It was an unnatural skill that few knew of. “They have been fine. You were correct in using Thoth’s skin. It wards off the visions better than anything else.”

“I was fortunate that any of its scales had fallen to the arena flooring. But, I do try, Lord Consort.” Dr. Porenni, Salazar, turned back to prodding the Qunari corpse.

“General Merula gave you another specimen.”

“That he did.” Undistracted by Evune’s words, he injected a thick syringe into the Qunari. Evune had to turn away and look at his arrangement of beakers and journals. Each of them dated by year and color-coded for reasons he did not know. "He is sleeping. A young one that should be no cause for worry."

"I have worry when you are asking our soldiers to  _find_ you Qunari."

Dr. Porenni raised his eyes. "And where else would I find them?"

"You don't."

Dr. Porenni merely sighed. "I imagine the Hand of Thoth gossip will disappear soon. There's too many stories. Most of which are far from the truth but I gather you knew this already." Dr. Porenni continued to speak, offhandedly, "I wonder if there's anything in the horns. Perhaps if I shave a little off here. . ."

Someone was clearly discussing the Hand of Thoth even after the court had been warned to keep silent on the matter twenty odd years past. Even before his son came to him, he had been hearing hushed gossip on his character and the weapon. Others relegating tales on his earlier days in Tevinter. There were few people who knew these details—some of which even Oran did not know.  He was lucky that he had barricaded himself in Tevinter glamour, tradition, his lovers, and his heirs. It protected him from the true harshness of Tevinter but that barricade seemed on the precipice of cracking. He had to wonder what would fall through first. His honor? His power? His family?

No. His precautions would have to be sped up. 

 “Any progress on the location of the temple.” He said aloud, sliding into the nearest chair. His eyes falling on the references spread across the table from Elvhenan Artifacts to Orlesian interviews during the war. It couldn't be said that the doctor wasn't a thorough man. And it was a way to avoid thinking of the young Qunari cooped somewhere in the prisons.

Dr. Porenni drew up a hesitant glance before flipping a cover over the corpse. He dipped his hand in the usual cleaning solutions before drying his hands and opening his drawers. He opened a marked page in one of his books and slid it to Evune. “I found out that the allusions related to its location isn’t Dirthamen like we had been predicting but an ancient temple of prayer to the Old Gods.” The pages in the book illustrated a temple drawn with thick lines covered by rocks in an earthquake. The next pages depicted magisters of old with the symbol of the Archon stamped on their chest, grizzly bearded little figures, periodically visiting these lands for pilgrimage until its loss.

“It’s Elvhen.” Evune added simply.

The doctor nodded excitedly. “That is the fascinating part. In these pages, it depicts that Spirits and the Old Gods were first—a fact that we have assumed. But, the hexes and traps described here have only ever been associated with Elvhen puzzles. You can read my notes alongside your translations, but I have no doubt. If this is the same place, there is an Eluvian inside. One that may have been owned by the Old Gods no less.”

“Slow down. I doubt the temple is still standing or we would’ve heard of it by now.” Evune said. He flipped over the pages of sketches and the poetic wording he had spent hours translating. The dialect was familiar but the references inside were beyond him. If Salazar was correct, then it would make sense. But had his people really dabbled in working with the Old Gods?

It couldn’t be.

“It seems a stretch.” Evune said while the doctor handed the book to him and pointed at the texts. “The Elvhen did not settle much on this island. If it’s an underground temple, we would have the usual open plains above with the customary trees and rites’ jars. There are no open plains on this island or any with those jars. None without an ocean blocking the way.”

“If this is a speckle of dirt in the ocean or a granule of sand stuck between milled grain, then what led Elvia here was but a jewel of a dream. Yet, she still found the Eluvian.  Our research has already suggested that there’s more than a few times that ancient Tevinters construed tales of Evanuris with the Old Gods to tell us that either our notes are leading us correct or all of history has been mishandled. To say that all of Elvia's work was an accident, well, I find it more likely the elves here accommodated their culture to fit their religious practices than that.”

Evune closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Tevinters and their Tevinter arrogance. He did have a point, though, unfortunately. “You think it’s the Temple of Thoth, don’t you?”

“Ah,” Dr. Porenni said hesitantly. He steepled his hands. “I have a great suspicion that Dirthamen and Thoth, although not the same, may have been _honored_ by the same groups. But this is based off the considerable information that led Elvia here in the first place, but, like we said, a speckle of dirt in the ocean.”

Evune nodded. They had been researching without any leads up until now. It was worth a try. “We need to go excavating within the week. Mark the map and I’ll plan an expedition.” Evune laid a weary hand against his temple. This would be a pain to explain to Oran. He still didn’t know if he would find anything worth bringing to the Divine either which meant keeping intel away from the Magisterium.

Davan would be pissed.

Dr. Porenni nodded. He lifted the book out from Evune’s hold and clutched it to his chest. “Tired? Too many long nights with lover number two.”

“His name is Oran.” Evune frowned. “And this isn’t an appropriate conversation.”

“Of course,” Dr. Porenni slowly answered. He tucked the book and its sketches away back in his drawers. “But he is the one who signs off on all of my projects and expeditions. Your word is law but his is legality.”

“He won’t prevent us from doing the expedition. I can promise you that.”

“It is not he I worry of.” Dr. Porenni continued. He tossed a cursory glance at the partially opened door before closing it carefully and turning back to Evune. “I have heard the Black Divine is displeased with the Archon’s sudden illness. He knows of Davan’s, of _your_ maneuvers. The Knight-Captain is in his crosshairs as well, I’ve heard.”

“Your defector senses are signaling, I gather?” Evune said. He made no effort to confirm nor deny. “He doesn’t want anything I have. Oran is a symbol. He knows that. Davan trusts the Black Divine enough to know that he won’t outright murder us. I trust his instincts.”

“I don’t think those things matter to him.” Dr. Porenni finished before shaking his head. “Family meant little to him before.”

Evune questioned. “Before?”

“There are rumors that his mother,” the Doctor lowered his voice, “was executed to keep the Imperium safe.”

“His mother?”

“They called it ‘Contusion On The Dales.”

The dead Qunari lying on the bed twitched and Evune reeled back. Salazar pulled out a syringe and stabbed it in the Qunari’s neck.

"I thought he was dead, Salazar." Evune hissed, rising from the chair. The Qunari twitched again before going utterly still.

"It's dead today, but yesterday is a different story. His muscle spasms are still running through."

"Cover the body. Now."

Porenni tucked the blanket around the body and slid it to the other side of the lab--out of sight. "Is that amenable, Lord Consort?"

No.  “The Black Divine is from southern Thedas." Evune swallowed harshly. He staved away the sickness toiling in his stomach. "Did you find his mother’s lineage?”

Salazar patted the body down and then checked his wrist, measuring the Qunari’s pulse. “No. She who was the foundation of the Valens has an iconic spot in Tevinter history. Personal accounts appear to be concise and objective but also very easy to find.”

“Unusual.” Evune remarked. And it was. Valens is a strong clan. Even after he had struck Elvia down from her pedestal, the Valens flew above it and relegated to making dues to the public. The Valens were once again respected. His clan’s murderers were free and the Black Divine knew Evune was his opposition. He knew Evune would want vengeance. As a man not one to show all his hands at once, this had to be a red herring.

Dr. Porenni continued, “The court disagrees that it was shameful, as declared by the Black Divine himself, and they have dubbed it as mere 'misbehavior'.  She planned to take over a neighboring kingdom _for_ Tevinter.”  At Evune’s questioning gaze, the doctor turned to his desk, rifled around his drawers before pulling out a ripped Templar registration list. “He gave up his rights as a Templar. Offered up a penance after her execution. He even apologized for her transgressing against the maker.”

“I don’t understand. They would’ve owned Orlais _and_ Ferelden. The Qunari wouldn’t have stood a chance.” Evune said, his voice speeding up as his thoughts tried to catch up on the mystery that was the Black Divine. This man couldn't have been that stupid or that self-sacrificing. And then his eyes widened, he tightened his fists on the table. "The Orlesian armistice." Shit. 

“The only reason he spoke up was because she planned on assassinating their Divine--a well-loved Orlesian. He felt he had a Templar duty or I surmise that is what he said. His insufferable honor saved our unstable alliance between us and the royal family rewarded him but only him. Their loyalties laid not with Tevinter but with--

"Eristoceles, that bastard."

Dr. Porenni continued, "This list is the only physical proof of the incident.”

The slip of paper had the last line half-written and some parts completely blank. “Where’s the main list?”

The doctor shrugged. “Elvia never found it. This list was under the care of one of his adversaries. A traitor in the royalist party. Needless to say, the adversary gave us no name and only made one request.”

 “I don’t plan to finish any favors of yours and Elvia’s.”

“You already have.” The doctor replied. “He only asked that we destabilize the chantry and that we take the Black Divine off his seat of power.”

Evune pressed a hand against his temple. “You worked with heretics. Did Elvia truly believe he would never find out?” If the Divine did find out. . .

“The irony is that they weren't heretics. It was a figure from our southern neighbors’ chantry. One with a familiar history as the Black Divine and, dare I say, parallel status.” Dr. Porreni paused, allowing that bit of information to sink in, “I only say this story in warning, Lord Consort, because it looks like your dealings are similarly done. If not even she can attack directly,” Dr. Porenni bowed his head. “Whether it be for the wealth of Tevinter or not, tread carefully. He is no simple old man.”

Evune turned towards the door and nodded briefly, before leaving. He had much to think about.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

“Sir, I made sure to allow no one else on the Boardwalk but us few.” The soldier said, his shoulders high. He followed behind the knight captain before his sudden stop crashed him into his back.

“Good. Pyrus, tell me of the attack.” Oran settled on his haunches overlooking the sea where the decimated ship and all its cargo floated. The remains of the cargo, wooden pieces, and wooden chips, confused the birds who swooped down from the sky only to spit out the pieces with the following squawk. “It couldn’t have been before sunrise.”

The young soldier, dressed in a similar armor to his comrades with the shiny crest of Tevinter, he wore a red covering over it. He cleared his throat. “It was shortly after you and the Lord Consort appeared. The attack was as silent as death if I could say so.” Pyrus paused hesitantly in-between stating ‘Lord Consort’ as if wanting to add more onto the statement but didn’t. Oran shuffled that to a part of his mind to be remembered on another day. He leaned over the boardwalk and caught a floating piece of damaged cargo. He snatched it up and smelled it, ignoring the soldier’s upturned nose.

“It smells of food.”  

Pyrus fidgeted. “That is a strange thing to say, sir.”

“It should smell like the salt of the sea or of chemicals, but it smells of food.” Oran pointed out again. His lieutenant opened his mouth before shaking his head and scratching. Oran continued, with humor in his voice, “And yes, it is a strange thing.”

Pyrus, not knowing what to make of the knight captain’s words, pulled out a folded thick pamphlet and flipped it open while reading it. “No one was injured and all the cargo destroyed was expired supplies, as you suggested. I only wish I knew why we were to do this.”

“Listen,” Oran waved Pyrus to follow him as he walked through the boardwalk. Soldiers saluted as he passed them, inflating a sense of responsibility that he would’ve once run away from. As a young man, he feared change and unknown. Evune had been the wheedle to help him recognize that he could be more. In more ways than one, his dragonslayer had saved his life. “In nearly every attack, the Qunari caught us off-guard, right?”

Pyrus carefully nodded.

“Every time, we’ve had to scramble to replenish lost supplies, plan a counterattack, and then check over our injured,” Oran said with his eyes assessing the sea. Soldiers wading in the water laughed at a pile of cargo falling into the water and splashing soldiers on the outskirts back on the beach. “But, all our writings are based on data from twenty, thirty years ago. Even the Knight Commander’s surveys and listings are short with only the basest of information.”

“You believe, sir,” Pyrus hesitated. “That you can get data off this.”

Oran tossed a big grin. “Tell me, what do you see?”

Pyrus stared over at the sinking ship near the horizon and the supplies floating out from underneath a crack in the ship. “They aimed for the main dock in the bottom of the ship.”

“No,” Oran repeated. His hands traveled along the path of the supplies towards the beach. “Look closer. The supplies are floating in one direction—undamaged. And no one was injured. What does this tell you?”

Pyrus gave another look at the knight captain before walking forward and staring down at the sinking ship. The knight captain was right. There wasn’t even explosive damage along the crack in the ship. No smoke. No smells. “It was a sabotage.”

Oran slapped a hand on Pyrus’ shoulder and the young soldier nearly lost his balance off the boardwalk and into the ocean. “Nicely done. I knew I chose you for a reason.”

“The Lord Consort chose me for my penmanship, sir.”

Oran broke out laughing. “But I _kept_ you for your cleverness.” The supplies nearest to the beach and midway had now been corralled to be tossed out. It was time to get to the ship itself.

 “What shall we do, then?

“We must go inside the ship and answer the difficult question.”

“Shouldn’t we inform the others that we,” Pyrus’ eyes shifted before lowering his voice, “have a spy.”

“Ah,” Oran shook his head. “The spy, for all is known, could be the Lord Consort’s. Until we are concrete—

“Wouldn’t he tell you if there was?”

Oran cocked his head. “Would you tell me if _you_ were?”

Pyrus’ mouth flapped like a fish. “Of course, sir.”

Oran shook his head and turned back out to the ocean, measuring the horizon with his hands. He made rectangular shapes with his thumbs and measured from the sun to the boat.

“Sir,” Pyrus said lowly, “if I may clarify. The only thing the Lord Consort told me to do was to honor your wishes and orders, even before his own.”

Oran eased out a sigh and dropped his hands. “It rather sounds like him.”

“Knight Captain!” Two soldiers marched forward, the clank of their armor loud enough to be heard more than several feet away. They saluted and uncovered the crest of the Black Divine on their armor. “The Black Divine wishes to speak with you. It can wait but—

“No, I have things to do later.” Oran stifled a sigh and gestured to Pyrus. “Make sure there are no supplies left in the sea.”

Pyrus tilted his head. “Of course, sir.”

 

 

The wooden and stone pathway of the docks swung slightly under his feet as he watched many of the soldiers digging through broken boxes and water-damaged equipment floating towards them. He found Oran shouting out orders as the men pulled the ship out from the sea to the dock using magic-infused rope when a footmen walked in front of him. Evune moved to walk around but the footmen moved to block him.

“Excuse me.” Evune threw his hand out and sternly said, “I’m trying to get through.”

The footmen shifted nervously. “I was told not to let you onto the docks while the Knight-Captain is working.”

“Pyrus, please, you know who I am.”

“I am well aware.” Pyrus cleared his throat, his cheeks red and his hands shaky. “I told the Knight Captain that I would let no one else pass me until he called me.”

Evune stamped down the urge to demand him to move again or, even childishly, shout for Oran. They were adults now. Unfortunately. “Is there another reason behind this?”

 “No, Lord Consort, sir. I respect you deeply as do many of us, sir, but,” The footmen saluted and fidgeted even more, “I’m only following orders.”

“Orders from who?” Evune hissed.

“From you, Lord Consort.”

Evune turned around and found the aged appearance of the Black Divine in front of him. He waved off the footmen and gestured Evune to follow him in the opposite direction. Evune tossed a look over the footmen’s shoulder where Oran stood before following the Black Divine back inside the fort. They wandered through the soldiers’ prep stations and the upper soldiers shouting orders to their subordinates, taking a bow with a salute, “Your Holiness.” They said in unison.

The Black Divine said, “You know how the chain of command works.”

“It is good to know you know of my men even better than I,” Evune said with a raised brow and budding sarcasm. “I hate to be remiss in my duties and it’s always necessary for a second look.”

The Black Divine nodded, ignoring the sleight of words, “I’ve always believed that an individual always has a second opportunity to return to the side of the Maker when under duress.”

It was not to say he wasn’t glad that Pyrus took the first words he told him to heart, but he needed to speak with Oran. It was no coincidence that Eristoceles deign to appear now either.

 

 As they trekked in the area of the fort he’d barely seen, it was through the barricades and two gates raised that the Black Divine stopped at a rather desolate space of the fortress overlooking the land of Seheron’s green. The trees yanked on their sides by the wind as the shouts of soldiers below skidded boxes onto the ground. The splash of feet and the suction of mud on their boots mixed together to make the music of an army. The squeals of iron and metal gears as the fortress barricades were clean added a rhythmic percussion to it. He felt a rush of pride towards their soldiers only to turn and see the Black Divine’s upturned nose.

“I’ve received some worrying updates over the last four months.” The Black Divine dropped a hand on the fortress roof ramparts.

Evune held back a sarcastic laugh. He answered nonchalantly, “I imagine it would be worrying when the idea of war coming to your doorstep is suddenly, distantly closer than it appeared prior. I would be worried too.”

“I admit my privilege in being held in the spire, in a well-protected city nonetheless, but this does not change the facts. Where once we gained ground, far more than ever in centuries, now, suddenly, the tides have changed. Among this, there is only one new factor.”

“Oh?” Evune said barely able to contain the humor in his voice. “Do tell me of factors. I wasn’t taught in a collegiate like you.”

The Black Divine’s lips curled into a snarl. “Lord Consort, do not play games with me.”

“Games? I think you mean to say strategy and counterattacks,” Evune said back, in a tone expressed much calmer than he felt on the inside. “If we want to go by those, ten years ago you switched the Knight-Commander’s position from Seheron’s offensive to Minrathous, promoted Oran, and then sent him away after our conversation where you spoke of ‘Forced Sacrifice’. A threat as I could call it nothing else.  Tell me, where does it make sense for a commander’s winning strategy to be rebuffed? Do I not have a reason to be here now when all efforts were conveniently evaded before?”

“They were not evaded, Lord Consort.” The Black Divine and his voice drawled on Evune’s title much like it did ‘elf’ those many years ago. “You had no reason to come here. And you decided to bring a criminal to this island, for what? To prove a point.”

“If I were trying to prove a point, your holiness,” Evune said icily, “I would’ve let your disastrous decision pull us into the vortex of failure. I decided otherwise.”

The Black Divine scoffed. “Your arrogance, as always, precedes you. You believe you are the variable to tip the war in our favor when no _true_ Tevinter ever could.”

“Arrogance because I’m not going to be the quiet consort, a convenient oven for heirs, or that I truly believe there is change worth working towards.”

“Both.” The Black Divine said curtly. “You’d do well to know your place.”

“You would do well not to insult or threaten me with the same words _others_ have spoken to me.” Evune replied at the Divine’s upturned nose, “I know your part in Elvia’s demise. Let’s not play coy now.”

The Black Divine’s rage fell from his face as elfroot poultice was applied to a burn. He coolly said, “Do not forget how you came to be where you are.”

“On my knees? I’ve never heard someone do it alone, except for one way,” Evune said humorously and taking great pleasure at the other’s man disgusted look, “My days have been long and hard yet how is it you would have anything to do with that?”

“You may find it all a great humor. But things are far more fragile than you believe. Perhaps, I will stay awhile yet.” The Black Divine snapped his robes around the corner and disappeared into the lower barracks cutting their conversation out entirely.

 

Hatred and heat bubbled underneath his skin. He slapped his hands against the stone until he felt scratches cut into them. His heart stuttered. “He’s not here for me.” He exhaled sharply. “Lanehn.”

A brief tap against the stone flooring and out from the shadows Lanehn appeared, bowing lowly to the ground. “Sir, I was trailing the Divine but—

“You were correct.” Evune said, feeling the air in his chest sputter as he breathed out, “Leave him be. Tell our Sicarri to focus on Oran. He’s planning something against Oran and . . . it’s more than likely he’s already started.”

“There is one more thing, sire.” Lanehn’s voice hung in the air. He tilted his head in the light and a thick scar sat on his face. Evune gave him his full attention. “There is a Qunari spy within the castle--one of our own. I left the missives by the Vhenadahl.”

“The tree?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?” Evune bit out. “Mistakes aren’t a realm we can return from.”

Lanehn nodded, “It is all in the missive, Lord Consort.”

“Very well.”

Lanehn whistled in the air and a bird flapped down to his fingers holding a small message. He handed it to Evune and then bowed lowly again. He sunk into the rampart shadows, disappearing along the dark walls.

He opened the missive with the stamp of Ferelden’s monarch and then ripped it to pieces, whispering to himself. “Very well. On your people’s head.”

His fingers tapped against the stone ramparts.

Time was running out.

 

* * *

                                                                                                                         

He sent missives to Noranni and Lysandris, but he knew kaffing well that his brother wouldn’t reply for several days. Lysandris had a penchant for making him wait and then telling him, “You need patience, brother.” As he scribbled some such nonsense in his magics journal. He slammed his fists on the table and pinched his bridge. This wasn't going to go well. What tempted him to say what he said? He knew what kind of man his father is. . .or the kind of man he appeared to be. Not a kind man but certainly not cruel.

“Are you writing to Noranni again?” His comrade snuck up behind him. The dining hall was empty this time before midday meal. The servants had just left and gathered the remnants of breakmeal. "You only look like that when you have to write in elf."

“No, not anymore, Avictus.” Leto turned to his teammate. A bulky Tevinter with dark hair and gray eyes. His biceps bulged at his crossed arms when hearing Leto’s answer. The smell of spicy mead wafted over softening his tightened shoulders. His friend must've also lit the flames of the fire pit chasing away the leftovers of Wintersend that wrenched its way into the deepest parts of the fort. It always seemed to be cold.

Avictus plopped on the seating and the table jumped up from the ground, taking Leto with it, and then fell back with a clatter. “You bully me, old friend.”

“Noranni has no time for dating. And even if she did, she doesn’t like humans.” Leto finished. He stamped his letters closed and sighed heavily. “What is so great about being an elf?”

Avictus awkwardly rubbed his stubble. “If I had to guess, nothing.”

“Exactly!” The elf retorted. “Mother likes to think there’s something great about it. The first good thing I heard was this birthright and he won’t even tell me.”

“Friend,” Avictus adds, calmly, “I say nothing because they are treated unkindly and cruelly throughout Thedas. Used for their looks. Killed for their ancestry. There’s nothing good because we made it that way. Perhaps, this gift is not all it seems, but, alas, what would I know?”

“You would say that. You and your fascination with elves.” Leto pulled out from the table and hit the kitchen doors open. A scullery maid whipped a pan and smacked him in the shoulders.

“You don’t go bursting—

The maid’s face dropped immediately and paled at the sight of who she had hit. “I’m sorry, sir. Had I known—

“You would’ve hit twice as hard!” A woman’s voice said, out from the kitchen closet. Out from the doorway came out a woman with tan skin, thick dark hair, and brown eyes. “This here is my team head. A showy little bugger without a mite of respect for the unders.”

“Caelia!” The maid hissed. “Your Ferelden is showing.”

“Oh, little sis, ain’t that cute. Your Tevinter is showing,” Caelia tussled the other girl’s dark hair and dropped the pile of food on the table. “That should be all you need. The mead is in the back if you needs it.” She directed that last sentence at Leto before clapping him on the shoulder and leaving.

Leto huffed. That was _exactly_ what he needed. With two kegs of mead in both arms, he shuffled outside the kitchen and dropped them on the table. The room had filled up in his absence. It was closer to dinner and people were laughing, shouting, and wrestling in their seats.

“You apologized to my sis, yeah?” Caelia said, wrapping her arm around Leto’s shoulder tight. “because you may be this posh face and my captain but—

Leto cut in, “It was my mistake. I’m not an ass.”

“So you say,” Avictus adds before taking a swig. Caelia and Avictus share a laugh, hitting their mugs together.

“Still you’s drinking awful early. Tell me what’s got your waggle stuck.” Caelia lowered her voice and switched between the two of them. “Is it the high order?”

“Nay,” Avictus replied, “one of my trainees got ill. The Blood Sickness.” Caelia burped loudly and Avictus waved it away. “You can ask Leto about his.”

“Rare, ain’t it?” Caelia answered. She thumped her chest and another burp fell out. Turning to Leto, she continued, “We still fumbling for some right shinies yeah. I hear Lysandris ‘ready got his accolade.” The entire time she spoke, Avictus quickly waved his hands, warning her to stop.

Leto stilled. “Of course he did.” He slid the mug from one hand to the next. His brother had his blasted magic. Noranni had freedom. But what did he have? A worthless title. He chugged the whole mug and then slapped it down, already filling another. “He worked hard for it. I’ll find something of my own.”

Avictus asked, “If it’s bothering you that much. You should duel it out. Get the anger out. Always works for me.”

“You’re an uncomplicated man, Avictus.” Caelia grinned.

Avictus narrowed his eyes. “You do the same you—you—pillock.”

“Ouch,” Caelia struck a hand against her chest, “you Tevinters and your insults.”

“Kaff off.”

The haze of mead welled warm in his chest. He was invigorated with an idea. “I have no magic. I’m earning respect the way my uncle had. If this _thing_ can give me even a little magic, my father will leave me be. I’ve done my duty. And yet, the only thing blocking me isn’t my skill, my age, but my own mother.” He scoffed and twisted the nozzle to fill his mug again. He needed to be more drunk for this.

Caelia and Avictus shared a look but only took a swig of their mug. Leto shook his head and then looked down. “Whose is this?” An extra piece of parchment sat underneath the barrel sticking out.

“One of the healers. Said you missed a check-up.” Caelia added “Ain’t that doctor the one who helped your mum fight the dragon? He might—

“He might.”

Leto took a hard look at the envelope. Until, finally, he pulled it free.

 

 

Evune had given up trying to speak with Oran. He was no longer at the boardwalk after his talk with the Black Divine and ended up on his way to the cafetorium.

 _Lethmalloren should be at midday meal._ Perhaps he had been too harsh earlier. It wasn’t his fault. Evune knew what Tevinter could do to his children and he had already forgiven him. For now, he hoped Lethmalloren would want to read his sibling’s letters with him—even Noranni had sent him one.

 A gentle tug pulled the chord in his heart where his children sat every time he entered the cities or looked at Davan and Oran—thought of them even. They're good kids. They'll be better adults.

“I hear his hole is a mile wide.”

“The front or back one. I hear he’s not built like a man. In fact,” the man lowered his voice speculatively, “I hear he’s actually a _woman._ ”

A female voice spoke up, “Women fight on the frontlines all the time. Why hide it?”

“Good question.” A higher-voiced male retorted. “I bet it had to do with the competition.”

Evune paused behind the doors of the dining hall. The three voices burst out laughing. The wooden table creaked against the stone flooring and the sound of mugs slamming on the table sounded near their laughter.

The woman continued, “It was likely to catch the Archon’s attention on the sly. We know the Archon has only one type. Elvia Valens likely thought a male elf was no competition.”

“Here! Here!” the sounds of cups smacking the table resounded and mead sploshing.

Evune waited a few more minutes before moving to enter the halls when the sharp screeching hit his ears.

“You imagine to know anything of the Lord Consort who saved your empire.” The deep baritone voice of his son spoke.

 The hall silenced.

Evune pressed a careful hand against the door to peek inside and see his son glaring down at the three that had just been speaking about him. Those at the other tables tossed glares at the three whisperers. Evune heaved an internal sigh of relief. Popular opinion was on his side for the time being. He wanted to keep it that way.

“The Lord Consort was heavy with child and won four proving battles!” Lethmalloren twisted around letting his gaze fall on every member in the hall, “That, is something to here, here about!”

“Here! Here!” Several Templar soldiers and recruits shouted.

“Defeated a dragon!” Lethmalloren tossed his fists in the air, facing the whole of the hall, “Saved the empire! Helped rebuild our cities! And gave prosperity to the unfortunate, but, please, tell us of your triumphants.” He tilted the mug of mead over their table and poured it on their laps. “I would like to hear them.”

“And the Blood Sickness?”

The whistling and cheering crowd quieted. A lone Templar pushed away from his seat and marched up to Leto. The Templar repeated, “It never existed before your _highness_ appeared. No one even in southern Thedas has even heard about it.”

“Illnesses can go by many names and—

“Kaff off!” The Templar shoved Leto and a few of his men rushed to hold him back. He swung at the soldiers holding him and broke out, shouting, “My brother’s dead because of your family. Tell me, where is the honor in that?”

Avictus shouted, “Alright boys! Clear out!”

The doors swung open and Evune found himself faced with the grouping of young and old Templars passing by.

Evune pulled away from the door and stood against the wall. Most of them hadn’t noticed him. He had a feeling some didn’t know what he looked like. The door swung closed and Lethmalloren with his friends stood in front of him. He was embarrassed.

“You heard.”

Evune swung an arm around his son’s and his smile widened. “Next time, don’t leave a mess for the servants to clean.” It was problematic if people were still discussing the Blood Sickness. “Is it always so—?”

“No,” Lethmalloren rushed out to say. “

“And I’m sorry. I didn’t think about how the people react. How they are.”

Evune nodded. “It’s no matter.”

Avictus cleared his throat. Evune had forgotten they were there. The two soldiers were familiar. Evune read many documents about them once he found out about their kindling friendship with Lethmalloren. They were a good sort. “Sir, on behalf of all of us, we’d like to thank you for your help at Akhaaz.” Avictus and Caelia thumped their hand against their chest and bowed.

Lethmalloren pulled away. “You were at Akhaaz?”

“Briefly,” and Evune continued to speak, “and I didn’t do nearly as much as those at the start of the battle.”

“It’s more than that,” Caelia broke in, “for the men who’s there they got nothing but kindness for you, sir. You saved lives.”

“We have training to do, sir, but—

“Thank you.” Caelia and Avictus bowed again before disappearing down the halls.

“Your team?”

Lethmalloren said, “I’m creating a central team and an outer like a web. The way Oran has it set is—”

“Disorganized,” Evune said humorously. “It works for him.”

“It seems to.” Lethmalloren fell silent. He exhaled sharply first before he started again. “I spoke to the healer. He asked me to sign something.”

Evune gestured for them to begin walking. “Did he?”

“Oran signs off your paperwork.”

“Most of it.”

Lethmalloren stilled and held a hand against Evune’s arm. He lowered his voice, “He said you didn’t have the _right_ to sign your name.” There was an amount of disbelief and frustration. To him, it was like the words were a cipher. It made even less sense as he spoke it aloud.

“Technically, he’s correct.” Evune tapped Lethmalloren’s arm and they began walking again. Their lowered voices coming off as a natural, normal conversation as Templars and higher-ranked soldiers greeted them through the halls.

“Are you still a slave?”

“Yes.”

Lethmalloren stopped them again. “Father must not remember or know. He wouldn’t—

“The only truest chains, da’len, are the ones others can hold you down by. I can’t suffer to let them weigh me down further. You understand? It’s only paper.”

“But it’s _not._ You can’t even sign your own missives. You’re the Consort, it’s—

Evune cupped his son’s cheek and smiled at him. “It would do me an honor if my children did better than I could. Leave my worries to me.”

“What does that make me then? Someone who--”

“Someone who has all the opportunities to do well.” Evune reprimanded. “Don’t have me repeat myself. You will be better.”

Lethmalloren nodded.

Those first unsteady, fearful walks in the very mansion he now called home transformed to a stroll of power. The cold hands of Tarsian around his throat and the words of his Magisters to clever tongues and cleverer missives.

His son need not know what he meant by better.

 


	4. Chapter 4

He reached the bedroom and paused at the sound of angry mumbling and intermittent shouting. Evune slowly opened the door when it was yanked out from his hands.

“Is that really what you believe?” Oran shot out.

Evune blinked. He turned towards Lethmalloren and apologized with a look. They would have to read the letters later. His son quietly disappeared back into the halls, unnoticed by Oran, while Oran’s eyes turned to stone as he paced the room. His hands locked and mouth tight. He had been waiting awhile. 

“The Black Divine and you,” Oran said slowly. Evune pressed through the door and Oran slammed it behind him. “Do you think the reason we’re losing the war is because of me?”

“No.” Evune quickly turned to face him. “It was only a bad idea to switch from the winning commander to—

“A losing commander, is that it?” Oran finished. “I’m the _losing_ commander.”

 _You’re not a commander at all, actually._ Evune wanted to say. But it wasn’t the time for it. He said, instead, “The Black Divine spoke to me a few months before he sent you off. He told me that I will _need_ to make sacrifices—that some were necessary. He was talking about Davan, and, I don’t know why but—

“So, you believe the Black Divine talked to you about _not_ capable of sacrifice and Davan, without saying it outright, but you think it had to do with me? And my leadership abilities.”

Evune pressed a hand against his temple. “Oran, you’re not listening.”

“I’m not listening,” Oran repeated, his face flushed red. “I’m not listening! I must be lost in that _vortex of failure_ you mentioned. Stupid, Liberati me!”

Evune winced. “I said that in bad taste, but he goaded me.”

“How many times have I and Davan both told you not mock the Black Divine? He will return it thricefold.”

“You are _never_ to _tell_ me what to do.”  Evune hissed. The teetering balance on his control slid off and he had to yank it back into place before he said something else he regretted but Oran was making it difficult. He always did. “He was threatening you. He was threatening all of you and I am protecting you like always.”

“I can protect myself.” His voice was sharp and biting. It was the explicitly dwarven side of him—like lyrium and stone. It was something he hadn’t heard in many years.

“I’m not the villain.” Evune’s voice broke. “I—

“He’s the Divine,” Oran said as if it explained everything and for some, especially humans, it was. “He helped us build the world we now live in and there are prices we must pay.  If he fights, you and I both know he only fights back in response to you. He handles high priests, the hate of most of Thedas because of his title, and if you took a moment to pause you would see how similar you two are.”

“He fights me because he _hates_ me.” Evune had been holding his hands so tightly that scratches scrapped against it. He could feel the tiny droplets of blood, like voices, sliding across his skin. "And I have not deserved even  _half_ the hate I have."

 “If your bitterness or residual misgivings from a man who exudes purity, while you—

 “While I, what?” It was hilarious. The urge to laugh was so powerful that he even _smiled._

“I didn’t mean—” Oran backtracked. “I only mean to say to say that you have been through things no one has had to suffer. You want to blame someone. _He_ is not the one.”

 “You don’t do good simply for the sake of doing good. You do good because it _is_ good.”

Oran brushed his hand against his cheek. “You are kalnath-par kallak, kalnath-gat parthas, love. You don’t understand.”

“Explain it to me.” Evune stepped back, out from his hold, but Oran didn’t loosen his grip, “Oran. I know you hate arguing in our bedroom--if you could listen.”

“I’m not going to _search_ for a problem,” Oran said. His voice hovered in the air like echoes off in the distance that couldn’t quite reach Evune’s ears. “ _You_ need to see and understand. Everyone is alive. Everyone is living in peace.”  

“I’m still a slave.” Evune let the words escape and huffed. “ _Nothing_ has changed. Not for me.”

“ _Every_ thing has changed. There are weightier things than pride. I did not join my clan because I liked them—those very same who abandoned me to die. My mother who I still can’t call mother. I did it because I love you and you must see that there are sacrifices we all make.”

“Lethmalloren looked at me with pity,” Evune said. Not once did he react to Lethmalloren's confession as he wanted to. There was no hatred about Tarsian or about Tevinter. There was no reminder that at one time he was free. “He knows, and there are things that I _never_ wanted them to see. Things that make me _less_ than who I am.” His eyes riveted into Oran’s.

“It is only because _you_ don’t know who you are. You can't study at the collegiate without a pseudonym. You don't visit the gardens without an excuse by planning meets. Meets! With people you don't even _like_. You _love_ that garden and your courses but no one would know it.”

And Oran was so blissfully honest, for a moment, that Evune wanted to twist his hands around his neck. “Oh,” Evune spoke, his words careful and scathing, “And you know who I am? Then tell me my _real_ name.”

For another moment, everything was still. The air was hot and Evune felt like his blood was boiling, churning from the tension. Oran hadn't known. Davan  _never_ told him, and Evune refused to apologize. It was true.

Oran appeared confused for a moment. "Evunial of--

"No," Evune hissed. "And it never has." 

“After you find this temple, I want you back home.” Oran swallowed harshly and dug his hands in his armor. He cleared his throat. “The war is my focus. Not you. Not on invisible enemies and unproven plots of evil. Or on your black and white colors of morality.”

Evune’s hand on the door hinge jarred him back to cognizance. And in this final, critical moment, his thoughts reined him in. “You may think it’s a coincidence that as soon as those Liberati bills went forward that he promotes you. Even the division of powers between Davan and you as the sticks falling into place, but nothing fits like a puzzle without another layer against it.” Evune paused to let the words sink in. “Be careful.” _Please._ He closed the door behind him and wordlessly fell back against it.

His clan had spoiled him.

 

 

 

 _13 th_ day of Nubulis

In the healers’ main room, there were several beds for the injured and recovering but deeper through those rooms were Elion’s old room and a storage closet. He dragged an extra bed to the storage room, a boxed room barely large enough for three beds with one small rectangular window way up high, and slept in there for the last several days if only to think and review the possible locations of the temple. He narrowed down the locations and made notes for the remaining. It was lonely. The room, for several reasons, reminded him of being at sea. 

He hated the ocean but he had to admit the smells of water and trees were twisting his memories of home. It was so much more beautiful than a few “The smell of the sea was. . .” or even the occasional, “It reminds me of. . .” whenever his children asked. He hasn’t even told them of the bread his mother used to bake or the paintings his father used to make of hallas and elvhen gods. He hated the ocean but he missed the memories. 

His bouts of mentorship were always about the safety of mind and body. Perhaps it was why Lethmalloren was so cruel sometimes. Perhaps it was why Lysandris and Noranni were, at times, even moreso.

He ventured into Elion’s room midday to clean and pack his things for the next transport ship. Usually, some footmen would handle it, but Elion was a friend. It seemed the least he could do. 

When things were finally boxed away and neat, it was nothing but curiosity that helped him find one of Elion’s forgotten journals stuffed away in the drawer. Most of the journal had been scribbled out and only a few pages were intact at all. Flipping through the remnant pages, his notes transcended into nonsense. It became less of a research journal and more of a diary. He had begun to draw shadows and depict angry scythe-like figures crowding the pages around a sole figure like an altar or a prayer service.

“And so he turned all the lesser priests and acolytes from the Temple of Beauty To beseech counsel from his god.” Elion scribbled beneath it. “Open the gates. Venatori.” For the life of him, he couldn’t remember where he’d heard that name—Venatori. It had passed his desk in a missive once.

The first six pages after the torn ones were filled with more drawings and more notations. Since Elion's death, he hadn't updated any of his mathematics writing. He was still years behind the average professor or scientist but he was certainly beyond a student or basic researcher. It was harder to learn alone.

Before, in those after hours, Elion edited his work. He shared in a few puzzles with him—even if the healer thought those were a waste of time. He was quick to point out mistakes but even quicker to correct them. Ripping out these pages—angrily and hurriedly, it seems—was farfetched.  Elion would never have kept a journal like this.

 Perhaps this was written in his final moments when his madness struck—his illness, but who put his journal back then? He tucked the journal back into the drawer and escaped to his room listening to the quiet chatter of those in the healer’s room. 

And then he flipped to the last page where a small folded letter sat.

It was Lethmalloren's health reminder.

"That boy," Evune whispered under his breath.  He tucked the journal back into the drawer and escaped to his room listening to the quiet chatter of those in the healer’s room. 

“Vishanting fenedhing piece of—

He entered the hospice and found a cadet marking supplies. The cadet scrutinized the labels and scratched his head as he scribbled and crossed out his words—he reminded him of Lysandris.

“It doesn’t make sense.” The cadet groaned and smacked the wad of paper at his forehead.

Evune couldn’t help it. The laugh squeezed out so easily and the cadet swiveled around, stuttering out a response.

“Lor—Lord Consort!” The cadet’s eyes jumped around the hospice hoping one of the injured would help him out. “I was just—

“Counting supplies,” Evune said, he gestured to the stack of papers, “I see that.”

“Oh.”

“Do you need help?”

“Yes! I mean,” the cadet cleared his throat, “if you have the time, sir.” He tried to salute and stumbled, nearly dropping all his paperwork. With shaky hands, he handed it over to Evune.

The boy began tapping nervously as Evune read over the numbers. “This is why you’re having issues. The elfroot salves are divvied up into five groups but the fifth stands alone. You understand?”

“Well—

Evune gestured for the cadet to stand beside him and the cadet warily moved as if he would be eaten. He pointed out the discrepancies on his list. “We group the supplies by counts. Four counts of elfroot bundles are actually one and the fifth bundle of elfroot is grown in the Quercus River in Nevarra so it goes in specialty bundles. When you grouped them by five—

“It put it all off by one.” The cadet cursed. “I’ll have to do it all over again. If you weren’t here, the Lieutenant would have had my head.” The cadet thanked him profusely before disappearing out the hospice dropping a slip of paper out from the pile in his haste.

Evune shook his head. _Kids._ He picked up the slip of paper and had to read it three times just to make sure he understood.

This was a list of all the men in the hospice. And their debts owed to the state.

At the bottom of the statement was Oran’s signature.

 _Are we gambling with soldier’s lives? No. Oran would never._  He slid the paper back on the floor upside down. This stunk of the Black Divine’s work.  Taking a peek around the corner, he found the cadet was already gone. He had to admit using a Lysandris look-alike was clever.

He must think Evune was easily unbalanced.

Pity on him.

 

* * *

 

 

The libraries of Ath Velanis, unlike the one at Vesces Manor, were full of anything but light reading. The bookshelves were covered in scrolls and books of war strategies and plans, both of failures and successes, of past commanders and soldiers. He browsed the shelves pulling at anything that looked familiar until reaching the late Blessed age.

The list of statements and accrued debts by the soldiers was something he had never seen. Although Evune, technically, had limited access Ath Velanis archives, there wasn’t anything he hadn’t already seen—death catalogs, baths for hired slaves, torture chambers, supplies lists, etc. There was nothing sordid about this fort that Evune didn’t know about.

It had to be fake.

The Black Divine was simply trying to divide him and Oran even further apart. He never understood how easily the Templars took in the old man's nonsense about peace and prosperity garnering him the glittering image of a “deeply” sacrificial man instead of the manipulative one that led Elvia to her death.

Oh, _amazing_ , the man doesn’t have sex. Evune would do it too if it really did mean kindness of heart but then babies wouldn’t be born and civilization would end.

It was bullshit.

The Black Divine that is. Not babies. Definitely _not_ sex. He really needed to sleep a full hours tonight. His mind was starting to ramble.

“There it is.” The picture on the page was a young man, a Templar formerly by the name of Caxton Arcturus Valens—the Black Divine.

Salazar was telling the truth.

Yet, the law stated Templars and Priests, "neither shall mix" so how did the old man do it? 

He traced the years Caxton was on duty and found his old Templar paperwork. Caxton’s small, looping handwriting wrote a short summary of an attack he headed in the Free Marches. A dried bloodstain blurred the pages discussing the aftermath. It brought a whole new meaning to Tevinter's bloody history.

Conveniently, what little could be read excluded the cause, result, and what "accident" caused this attack at all.  He flipped through more pages and it went on through the end of the Blessed age into the Dragon without any more retellings. Three decades of strategies and movement but nothing but locations repeated in their summaries. Free Marches. Reconnaissance.

He needed to go to the source—the records room. The door had been locked for several years since before Davan's stationing at the fort thirty years past. He pushed open the second door with a creak and a flash of a ward fizzled. Lighting a match, he could see the Records shelves, dirtied with layers of dust and spider webbing, a stout wooden pedestal, discolored to a muted white, and a table holding a stray candlestick. There was dust on the surface of the book podium and on every shelf. The chairs sat covered in a layer of dead bugs and more dust. He doubted any of them could handle a stray sneeze much less his weight. He lit the candle, pulling it up closer to fill up the whole room and found himself in a room that had not been used in many years. It wasn’t just the shelves and the pedestal or even the tables but the ceiling, the floors, and even the chairs.

He had only minutes before whoever set that ward either came looking or sent someone looking. It meant taking the "easy" route this time.

He pulled off a glove and exhaled slowly. His fingers pressed against the written page, the blood-stained ones, and closed his eyes. Tthe room shivered into a sharp cleanliness as if a curtain swept open to introduce a show.  scribes scurried around the room in and out the door. The same shelves stood along the walls wiped clear of dust and grime. The spines of the books shining a sort of newness they hadn’t had in years—sixty, if Evune counted correctly. The scribes scurried in and out the room. They didn’t see him. And rightly so, they shouldn’t. He wasn’t actually _here_ or there for that matter. He was staring blankly in the dusty, cobwebbed library of Ath Velanis.

This was a whole other matter.


End file.
